


the knife that sets you free

by MalevolentReverie



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ben is 28, But she’s not 18 so I’m tagging underage, California, Dark, Darkfic, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gaslighting, Mental Health Issues, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV First Person, POV Rey (Star Wars), Praise Kink, Rey is 17, Schizophrenia, Size Kink, fake dating au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23601490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalevolentReverie/pseuds/MalevolentReverie
Summary: Rey has felt alone for most of her life—then she has a chance encounter with Ben, and he offers her everything she’s ever wanted.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 728
Kudos: 928





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so i am schizophrenic and would like a characterization that isn’t “mental hospital” or “crazed villain” so here we are
> 
> i feel guilty putting this on private but idk if it suddenly vanishes then I didn’t feel guilty anymore lolol

“My mom said she’ll get you a dress, Rey. If you want to go to prom.”

Prom, prom, prom. No matter where I turn or who I talk to, they all can’t seem to shut the fuck up about prom. Sick of it. Sick to death of it.

Rose is just trying to be nice—she’s always trying to be nice and I should be grateful—but I resent being a charity case and having no one to go to the stupid prom with. Didn’t go last year for junior prom, either. I don’t care. It’s not the end of the world.

I scramble my combination lock and plant a smile on my face. “It’s okay. I don’t have anyone to go with, anyway.”

She rolls her eyes and huffs, watching the other students amble down the hall. End of the day, on a Friday, thank god. Can’t wait to go home.

“Maybe Mitaka?” she suggests.

“He’s going with Phasma.” I sling my backpack over my shoulder and count off on my fingers. “Poe is going with Finn, you’re going with Hux, and Kaydel is going with… Jannah?”

“What about Bazine?”

“Going with Snap.”

Rose mutters a curse and I shrug. Everyone has someone to go with except me. I would’ve gone with Finn, maybe. Couple years ago.

She smiles and walks down the hall with me.

“You could go alone? People do that all the time now. Like an anti-prom thing.”

“I’m fine. I’ll just catch up on _Real Housewives._ Prom isn’t going to make or break my life or anything.”

“Well _no_ , but it’s still fun to go.”

Sneakers come squeaking quickly down the hallway and Rose is scooped up by her new boyfriend, Hux, who swings her around like a sack of potatoes. I raise my eyebrows and watch them for a second, her shrieking at him to put her down while he just keeps spinning. Funny how six months ago he was throwing erasers at her head and calling her a loser.

Not funny. I hated him. Still kind of do, but at least he’s not being a fucking bully anymore.

“Well…” I wave, sidling toward the doors. “Gotta go.”

Rose is too busy running her hands through his red hair to pay much attention—then they’re making out and I decide to make myself scarce.

Sunny out, like always. Northern California but the weather is dicier than SoCal (I think but I’m not a meteorologist). I hop down the steps to the sidewalk and shield my eyes, squinting down the long line of buses along the block filled with fancy houses: nowadays I usually walk home to the old shack I share with my foster dad. Embarrassing taking a bus when you’re seventeen.

Off I go. Other kids swell and move around me but I’ve gotten pretty good at tuning them out. It’s easier if I insulate myself to all the noise before it overwhelms me.

Maybe I’ll go sit on the beach. I live near one of those rocky ones that no one likes; more like Maine than the traditional California most people think of. But it’s quiet. Good place to take a nap or talk to myself when I’m extra paranoid that Rose or Poe or Finn is out to get me. If Unkar hears me he snaps about upping my meds and that’s the last thing I want.

I kick a pebble with the toe of my moccasin. Should be a good weekend. I really don’t care about prom.

Maybe I care a little about prom.

Feels like another thing I’m excluded from: can’t afford the field trips or extracurriculars because Unkar is a cheap _fuck_ , and after my meltdown sophomore year, no guy wants to touch me with a ten foot pole. I don’t blame them; I mean I think only certain men are attracted to girls like me, and they don’t have the best intentions.

In about fifteen minutes I’m walking down the dirt path to my house, two bedrooms and crumbling blue cedar shakes. Unkar’s truck isn’t here so I assume he’s out picking through antiques. If I leave quick enough he won’t harass me into helping him out all day Sunday.

The reek of cigarettes hits me hard when I open the door and kick an empty beer can out of the way. I skirt the island and hurry down the hall to my bedroom, which is only slightly cleaner than the rest of the house. Neither of us is terribly neat. I drop my backpack on the bed and open my underwear drawer for the bottle of Zyprexa I keep stashed there. Take it every day after I get home from school. That’s the easiest way for me to remember.

Maybe I’ll go sit on the beach. I swallow the pill dry and paw through the next drawer down for a pair of shorts. Who cares about prom? In a few months I’ll graduate and… do something. I’m not sure. I think I should know what I want to do but I don’t. I feel aimless. Confused. Tired.

The front door opens and shuts.

“Rey—gonna need your help Sunday.”

Fuck. I throw my hair up in a ponytail and grab my journal from under the bed that has a little lock on it, then carefully open my window and crawl out. Stole the journal from Walgreens. What? I’m broke.

Unkar is coming down the hall as I slide the window shut and take off towards the beach.

—•—

“Right? I don’t give a shit about going to fucking prom. It’s not like it’s my _wedding_.”

Salty air whips the loose strands along my hairline across my face so I can barely see as I crawl down the rocks. Slippery, some covered in barnacles that scratch my palms, but I know which ones to avoid by now. I climb down to the rocky beach in one piece and brush the hair back from my face.

Not on the phone with anyone. Just talking. It’s nice to talk out loud. Sometimes I feel like I’ll explode if I don’t.

“Yeah, I know Rose is trying to be nice,” I grumble to myself, or whoever I’m imagining is hovering a few feet away, “but I don’t want to be someone’s guilt date. I’m fine. I skipped homecoming and all the other dances and I’ll sit this one out, too.”

Someone answers—not loud, kind of like a vague whisper in the back of my head. I’ve given up on trying to explain it.

_But you want to go_.

“No I don’t. I don’t care.” I shrug and bend over to pick up a pretty sand dollar. “I don’t care.”

_It would be nice to be included._

“I guess. I dunno.”

It would be, but it’s easier for everyone if I isolate myself. I’m best taken in small doses.

Plus—most days I’m unmotivated to do much. I’ve gotten back to showering at least twice a week, which was a big step, but socializing can get dicey and everyone always wants to drink and smoke. Neither of those things agree with me. I feel like an old lady. _Have to take my pills on time._ Can’t be out too late.

“Maybe I’ll go alone,” I mutter. Ooo. I pick up a piece of coral, smiling. “How bad could it be?”

“Who are you talking to?”

I jump, backpedaling towards the ocean and splashing in a couple steps. Alarm bells go off in my head, images of dismembered bodies and murdered and raped teenage girls; no no no no—

There’s a very tall man standing fifteen feet away next to an even taller blue surfboard. No shirt, oddly pale for a man with a surfboard, and very… big. He raises his eyebrows at my hasty retreat, and I pick up the faint smell of weed. Must be the thing between his fingers. It’s legal now, right?

He coughs. “Are you talking to yourself?”

Things race through my mind unbidden. Rose sent him. She’s mad I won’t accept her offer and go to prom. Poe sent him because… he doesn’t like me. No one likes me. They probably hope I drop dead.

I hyperventilate and stare at him and freeze like a mouse. Maybe if I don’t move—maybe he’ll go away.

The man takes a hit from his blunt and exhales the other way, then lapses into a coughing laugh. He’s dripping water and his black hair is plastered against his scalp. Big ears. His fingers are really thick.

“I’m not judging,” he says. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“You—you shouldn’t be here.” My voice trembles. My private spot has been violated. “It’s private.”

He frowns and looks over his shoulder. His surfboard is rooted firmly in the sand. Looks new.

“Didn’t see a sign.” He waves a big hand towards the crashing waves. “I’ll be back out after I’m done with this and you can talk to yourself as much as you want. Like I said: don’t let me interrupt.”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

His eyebrows rise higher and he laughs again. My toes curl in the assorted rocks and I consider hurling one of my finds at his head and making a break for it.

“Why?” he asks, teasingly. “You gonna go call the cops?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh _shit_.” He inhales again, studying me with a condescending smile. “Hard to imagine why someone as reasonable and friendly as _you_ doesn’t have a date to a dance.”

My cheeks burn. That’s embarrassing.

“Well you’re lurking around—being suspicious!” I retort. Waves lap around my sneakers. “Excuse me for not trusting strangers!”

“Yeah, nobody surfs in California. On public beaches.”

“It’s a bad surfing beach!”

“I’m sorry nobody wants to take you to prom. That must be hard.” He pouts and exhales another stream of smoke into the breeze. “But I bet it has nothing to do with your attitude.”

My scowl deepens and he tries and fails to hide how _amusing_ he finds it. I’m not going to engage with him. He’s rude. Probably some asshole from SoCal.

I storm off and climb the rocks, and he calls after me, but doesn’t follow.

“I’m Ben! You wanna tell me your name, sunshine?”

“Fuck you! I’m in high school!”

He laughs. I’m scrambling up the rocks with my notebook under my arm and it’s slipping but if I let go then I’m going to have a nasty fall.

“I just want to put a name to the scowl.” His voice is coming closer. “You seem like a Harriet. Kelsey. Margaret. Something bitchy.”

My heart races as I reach the top—and promptly drop my notebook.

I twist to grab it but my foot slips and I immediately cling to the rocks again. Trembling, I peer down and find Ben picking it up off the rocks, cocking his head. No. No, no, no.

He squints up at me. “Did you write those Judy Blume books, Marge?”

Escaping is more important than the diary. I haul myself up on the grass and take off running for the house, hoping that I’m having a hallucination. He’s probably not real. Definitely not. Maybe he is. Hopefully he can’t break the lock on my journal. The insert said it can’t be broken.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀

Thinking of someone reading my diary makes me so sick that I can’t sleep.

It’s not just random little thoughts, like who I think is hot (Poe two years ago, but I’ve gravitated towards Bazine for some reason) or what I had for breakfast. Other things come trouncing through my head; upsetting things I have to write down so they don’t make me explode. I’m not a serial killer—I don’t want to hurt anyone—but a lot of the bad thoughts turn inward, and I don’t want to go to the hospital again.

I pace my bedroom, chewing my nails already gnawed down to the quick. I’ve got to find him. Ben. He didn’t sound like he’s from California; had more of a Midwest accent that only broke through once or twice. And he’s pale. Can’t be a heavy surfer.

My address isn’t in the journal, or my phone number, or my name. It would help someone find me if I lost it but it would also _help someone find me_. I’d rather never be found. He doesn’t know my name. He can’t call the cops on someone he doesn’t know. Right?

Maybe I’m safe, then. Could leave it to him. But he’s going to come back to the beach looking for me—I know he will. Has that vibe.

I stare out my window into the dark street. My chest is tight. Probably about five minutes from a panic attack, but there’s nothing I can do about it except hope it passes quickly.

—•—

By mid afternoon I can’t stand it anymore.

I debate bringing a knife with me for protection, delicately touching the handles stowed in a kitchen drawer I shouldn’t have access to. Unkar watches TV in the living room and ignores me sizing them up. I should bring one. Ben is a big guy. What if he tries to kidnap me?

“What’re you up to?”

Big knife. Better bring a big one. I shrug, sheathing a butcher’s knife and hiding it down the back hem of my shorts.

“Going for a walk.”

Unkar nods from his recliner and doesn’t bother glancing back at me. Gray cigarette smoke curls up to the ceiling. I think he’d prefer it if I committed suicide.

I head out into the sunny afternoon with my knife kind of hidden. I’m not gonna shove it in his face or anything crazy like that but I want him to know I’m not defenseless. Or stupid. And it’s stupid to meet a strange man on a secluded beach without a weapon.

My palms sweat as I get closer to the beach and I start wondering if the knife is just an invitation for him to attack me. Maybe I brought a knife to a gun fight. What if he shoots me and publishes my journal online posthumously and my legacy is some paranoid ramblings on Tumblr? Maybe this is a test from CPS. They told Unkar the knives and sharp objects in the house should be locked up. What if they drag me off to another foster family?

I hesitate a couple steps from the rocks, blood pounding in my ears. Is this really worth a dumb journal? He probably doesn’t even care.

But I do. I’m going to keep obsessing over it until I know where the stupid thing is.

Gulls coast by overhead as I step over the first cluster of rocks and scan the beach below. It looks empty, but I adjust my knife and climb down anyway. It’s kind of long so he may have wandered down a ways.

I land on the rough sand and quickly turn in a circle, reaching back for my knife. Waves roll gently in towards shore and I spot a conch shell in the swell a handful of feet away. It’s quiet, typical of my tiny beach, and I wonder if Ben even bothered to come back today. Not great for surfing. Waves are small.

“Back again, Marge?”

My heart leaps in my throat and I spin around in time to see Ben emerging from the water. He’s in up to his waist and laughs at my surprised squeak, flipping back his wet black hair and plastering it to his head. He wipes water off his face with a broad pass of his huge hand. No surfboard.

I reach for my knife as he makes his way out of the ocean, skin reddish and glistening from the sunshine. It’s a little much.

“I… I want my… book,” I stammer.

“Yeah, I know. Been waiting for a couple hours.”

His ears protrude but I hardly look because his swim trunks are _very_ low on his hips and I can see that V-shape. I stare for a long minute and my cheeks burn. Can’t he pull them up? Use a _string_?

I clear my throat, averting my eyes to a sailboat way out on the horizon. “Okay. Where is it?”

“Did you find anybody to go to prom with?”

“In the last sixteen hours? No.”

Ben smiles and laughs, shaking his head. He walks up the sand toward a green backpack sitting hidden behind some rocks and my eyes wander down his back. Lots of scars. Big. Lots of muscles.

“What high school do you go to?”

“None of your business.”

He turns to look at me and sets a hand on his hip, tongue roaming inside his cheek. Still smiling.

“Girls are usually a lot nicer to me,” he says. “You’re awful defensive.”

Being defensive is practically written in my DNA and I don’t owe a strange man any semblance of kindness. He could be a serial killer for all I know.

But the comment still stings. I _am_ defensive. It makes it hard to make friends. Go out on dates.

I bite back a sarcastic comment, suddenly unsure and nervous under his penetrating dark eyes. Do I look like an idiot? Like a kid? Thoughts spiral like they always do, insecurity sinking it’s teeth into my brain and scattering my brave indignation. I have a _knife_ why did I bring a _knife_ —

I’m deficient; unlikeable, unfuckable. Girls are nice. Not defensive.

Ben cocks his head and his smile softens. Water laps around my flip flops, and I cross my arms.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he coos. “You look so sad.”

“I’m not your _baby_.”

“You want to be? I like girls with bad attitudes.”

My snippy retort sticks in my throat and I just shake my head and glare at the sailboat while he laughs. Idiot. What a jerk. He reminds me of Poe.

“Tell me your name,” he cajoles. “I can’t call you Marge forever, and you’re definitely too pretty to be a Marge.”

“Give me my journal,” I snap.

“What’s the rush, baby? Got somewhere to be? Boy to see?”

“Don’t call me—”

“I’ll just have to remember you as Marge the sad girl on the beach without a date for prom.”

“I can go with someone!”

“Well you _could_ —you’re hot, but you’ve got a shitty attitude.” Ben leans over and unzips his backpack, shrugging as he plucks out my notebook. “I don’t know. I just wanted to know your name and maybe help you out, but…” He offers it out to me.

I’m a little flustered by the mix of compliments and criticisms and don’t move. He thinks I’m hot? And he said he _likes_ my attitude.

I huff, rolling my eyes. “Fine. It’s Rey. With an ‘e’.”

“ _Rey_ ,” he echoes. The journal waggles in his fingertips. “Rey. Pretty.” Ben clicks his tongue and studies me, tilting his head. “You want my help?”

“With what?”

“Prom. I’ll go with you.”

I can’t help but laugh, and it’s been a long time since I _really_ laughed. Ben just smiles and raises his eyebrows, still offering me my journal in his long fingers. Yeah. He’ll go to prom with me. Sure.

I take my journal and touch the lock, relieved that it doesn’t look like it’s been tampered with. No scratches, and it definitely wasn’t broken open.

“I didn’t open it.”

I glance up at Ben and he shrugs. It looks like he didn’t. My trust is hard-earned and he may have won a couple ounces of it.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Yup. My mother used to read mine all the time, so…” He rolls his eyes. “Wish they had locks back then. Where’d you find it?”

“Walgreens. It said it’s tamper-proof.”

He nods like he’s impressed. I turn it over in my hands and hug it to my chest, relieved. Good. My secrets are still safe with me.

Ben scratches the back of his head, gazing out across the ocean. “I just moved here a couple weeks ago so if you ever want to hang out—or want help—let me know.”

“Where’d you come from?”

“Oklahoma. I like living in new places, but it was pretty boring there. You from here?”

“Yeah, I’ve been in the system since I was little.” Change the subject. Change the subject. “Where else have you lived? Do you like it here?”

He shrugs. “No complaints, it’s just lonely sometimes. I’ve lived in about a dozen states by now and visited all fifty. Big country.”

“Really? You’ve seen them all?”

“Yup. Alaska to Hawaii.” Ben grabs a shirt from his backpack and shrugs into it. “Anyway—like I said, if you need any help or whatever, let me know.”

I narrow my eyes, watching him swing the backpack over his shoulder. Uh huh.

“I’m seventeen,” I snip.

He laughs. “You think I want to fuck you?”

My cheeks heat up all over again and I scoff, glaring in the other direction. Well he said he thinks I’m hot.

Ben passes a hand through his hair and walks close by me. I don’t dare move, nervous and excited by his proximity—

I feel a rustle and by the time I whirl around, he already has my knife in his hand, and he casually tosses it in the air and catches it by the handle. He smiles at me in a way that makes my spine tingle. How did he grab it so fast?

“Let me know, Rey,” he calls. “Stuck my number under the front cover.” He points the covered knife at me. “Just friends. I’m not just a piece of meat, y’know.”

I’m left there flustered and confused as Ben scales the rocks in five seconds flat. Not just a piece of—yeah right. Like I’d ever—he’s weird. And he stole my knife!

I pick up a rock and lob it into the waves. What a weirdo.


	3. Chapter 3

The phone number tempts me for the rest of the weekend. It would be so easy to text Ben and ask if he can come to prom with me so I don’t have to be the one without a date, but I _know_ it’s a bad idea. Stranger danger and all that.

But it sticks in the back of my mind anyway, and his voice echoes in my head while I sit there in home room and watch everyone planning what they’re going to do after prom. Party at Poe’s, maybe, but they’re considering going to a hotel or a campsite. Rose says I can go if I want.

I examine my nails and unlock my phone. Everyone laughs and chatters in the background as I open up my contacts and scroll down to _Creepy Surfer Ben_. This is a bad idea. But he didn’t go through my diary and even brought it back to me. I can trust him for one night, around a whole bunch of other people. He could pass for being… uh… in his early twenties.

> **(707) 881-0505** >
> 
> _________________
> 
> **iMessage  
> ** **Today** 10:01 AM
> 
> Hi, it’s Rey.  
>  _Delivered_

Okay, done. I lock my phone and slip it in my pocket again, heart pounding. Now I wait.

“You okay, Rey?”

Rose is watching me from Hux’s lap. They’re sitting on the windowsill, Bazine and Poe staring, too, and I quickly nod and smile. No one is _mean_ to me or anything like that, I’m just hyper aware that I don’t belong. Never been more obvious.

“I’m good,” I say. Shrug. “I might have a date for prom.”

They gasp like I just told them I won the lottery, and I guess I did in a way. It’s nice to feel like I’m part of the group—Rose demands to know who, and everyone else is curious, too, until the bell rings and we have to go off to class. I’ll have to think of something. Can’t say he’s almost thirty.

My pulse flutters from all the excitement as I switch my books out in my locker and check my phone. Nothing yet. I’m sure he’s going to keep me hanging.

—•—

After school I go home and make myself a ham sandwich, still checking my phone for a text. It’s definitely the right number. Is Ben going to keep me waiting forever? Now everyone thinks I’m going to prom so I’ll look like a loser if he doesn’t answer.

The trailer is empty. Unkar must be out selling junk which means I’m free for the night; free to hang around waiting for stupid Ben to answer me. I chuck my phone on my bed and take my pill, annoyed that I’m going to sit and wonder the entire night. When I open my window to let in the warm salty breeze, I hear my phone vibrate.

> **Today** 3:18 PM
> 
> rey who
> 
> You know who I am.

“Jerk,” I mutter, glaring at the little bubbles as he types.

> oh hey Marge what’s up
> 
> If you can still come to prom with me—that would be cool.  
>  **Read** 3:25 PM

> You home?
> 
> What’s it to you?

> we should talk in person  
> dinner, you need a dress, etc  
> logistics, not a date

I scowl. Fine. I don’t want it to be a real date, anyway. I just need him to come to prom with me.

> Fine. I’ll meet you at the beach.
> 
> don’t have to

Someone knocks on my window and I jump, heart leaping into my throat.

Ben is outside and laughs at me, black hair combed back in a ponytail, some strands hanging down past his big ears. He slides my window up further and crouches to lean over the edge, peering into my bedroom. I stare in mixed rage and terror. He’s wearing board shorts and a sleeveless black shirt and one of those paracord bracelets.

“You should change up your routine.” He rubs his nose and smiles smugly. “Makes it harder for people to stalk you.”

“How did you—?!”

“So, want to go get tacos? I know a good food truck about twenty minutes away. My treat.”

How did he find me? I keep staring, frozen in fear, mind already spinning to the worst case scenario: he rapes and kills me. Is that what he’s here for?

Ben reaches back and brandishes the knife he took from me over the weekend. He flips it in his grasp and offers out the handle to me, still smirking, halfway inside my bedroom. How did he find me?

“Thanks,” he says.

I don’t move for a couple minutes and he tilts his head. He tosses it in his palm again and leans in to set it on my desk. I don’t think he can fit all the way through the window. It’s a miracle his shoulders did. Should I call the police? I don’t know this dude and he’s breaking and entering.

I swallow. “You should go.”

“I just pointed out some flaws in your flight path, little bird.” He pouts his lower lip, batting his eyes up at me, and my face burns. “Don’t you think I deserve some gratitude?”

“I’m going to scream if you don’t—”

“What medication do you take?”

I ball my fists. “ _Excuse_ me?!”

“I saw you take something out of your dresser. Ritalin? Lexapro? Adderall?”

“No!”

“Oh. Something fun? Oxy? Morphine?”

“Get out of my—”

“Modafinil?”

“Zyprexa!” I snap, crossing my arms stiffly. I clench my jaw to keep my lip from quivering. “Asshole.”

Ben puckers his lips, nodding, and shrugs. I’m embarrassed. It’s not an antidepressant; it’s antipsychotic and psychotic people are crazy.

“I used to take stuff like that.” He folds his arms on the windowsill and rests his chin on them. “Stopped a while ago. It’s bad for your brain.”

“I think I’ll defer to my doctor, thanks.”

He laughs, studying me in a way that makes me feel odd and vulnerable. Don’t _stare._

“Good idea,” he says. “So, dinner?”

Ben tries convincing me to climb out my window but I slam it shut in his face and go out the front door instead. He’s waiting for me there, and turns and gives me a megawatt crooked smile over his shoulder, hands in his pockets. The breeze gently blows his hair like he’s from a movie or something.

He laughs when he sees me carrying the knife but doesn’t say anything. I follow him about ten feet back down a block of crumbling stone houses to a red Corvette—it looks like an old car but it’s in perfect shape. Antique. Expensive.

I circle the side, narrowing my eyes. “This is _yours_?”

“Sixty-eight Corvette. Don’t put the surfboard in this one.” He unlocks the door and slips inside.

My door is unlocked and I hesitantly sit in the passenger seat. The interior is black and also in really good shape, and it doesn’t smell bad or anything. I’ve never been in a nice car. I’m afraid to touch anything.

Ben turns the key in the ignition and the engine rumbles to life. I carefully put on my seatbelt.

“So you need a dress and shit, right?”

I hold my knife in my right hand for extra stabbing power and nod. I’m not a car aficionado or anything but Finn likes them, and I’ve heard Corvettes are expensive. How does a weird beach bum afford one? Is he _not_ a beach bum?

Ben nods as he pulls away from the curb. An old rock song plays on the radio, one of those ones I kind of know but forget the band.

“Rose can help,” I say. “My friend. She said she’ll help me get one.”

“I’ll do it, we just need to pick a day to go.” He breaks into a slim smile and glances down at me. “I haven’t worn a suit in _years_. Not since my last corporate job. You think I can pass for eighteen?”

“If the lighting is shitty enough.”

He laughs, patting my bare thigh after he shifts gears, then going back to talking. I press my legs together and bite my lower lip. Okay. Well… all he did was _pat_ me. He didn’t grab my crotch or anything.

We zip through the narrow streets to the food truck Ben promised, one I’ve been to a couple times with Rose. He parks across the street and I make sure I lock my door when I get out.

“I think I’ll leave my hair long,” Ben says as I circle the car to cross the street. He looks both ways and snaps his fingers, holding out his hand. “Harder to tell I’m pushing thirty.”

I glare daggers at his hand and slowly work my way up to his dumb face.

“Am I a dog?” I snap.

“You _are_ a bitch.” He seizes my hand and proceeds to dragging me across the street. “It’s just a thing, Marge. Doesn’t need dissecting. I don’t hate women or anything.”

Tumblr has taught me that men snapping at you and expecting you to hold their hand is shitty and sexist, so I’m offended on one level, and find it oddly attractive on another. I’m blushing pretty hard by the time he pulls me up to the food truck, heart pounding. I shouldn’t _like_ his… brutishness. If that’s what it is. It’s disrespectful.

His hand is warm and rough and he threads his fingers through mine while he orders our food—without asking me what I want. I’m not being the good feminist I should be. I’m nervous. Should’ve brought my knife but that seemed like a bad choice on a busy street in California.

Ben steps away to let the next person up to the counter and takes out his phone. My head is whirling; I can’t think about anything except him holding my hand, even though it’s middle school stuff and shouldn’t affect me like this. What am I, _twelve_?

“What corporate—what job did you… do?” I manage, voice squeaking.

“Chief actuary for a big insurance company. Biggest in the country.” He shrugs, scrolling with his thumb. “Got bored of sitting in an office banging interns.”

“…Oh.” Banging interns. Neat.

“Well, I never got sick of fucking interns, but I _did_ get sick of all the data, and the analysts, and the bullshit bureaucracy. What do you want to do after you graduate? Dominatrix?”

The person at the counter is watching us, eyebrows raised over his thick-rimmed glasses. Ben notices and stares back at him with the same perplexed expression until he finally looks away.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve been taking things day by day instead of planning ahead.”

“Much better way to live. You don’t need college and shit—waste of money.”

Our order is called up and Ben pulls me over to grab it. There are picnic tables out in the grass under some palm trees and I’m seated there, then given my food and soda. He just sets it in front of me and doesn’t tell me what it is, even when I ask three times and tell him I’m allergic to onions.

“I’ll die,” I insist.

“Just eat it,” he says.

I huff and make a big show about checking the taco for onions before I take a bite. Usually I get a burrito but this is pretty good, too. I _guess._

We watch people meandering around the food truck while we eat. People watching—my favorite. I chew slowly, savoring my dinner, and I’m just about to thank Ben when I notice he’s turned around looking at someone. His food sits untouched.

He clicks his tongue.

“See that girl?”

Cold creeps into my stomach. I’m jealous and I shouldn’t be. What do I care?

I roll my eyes. “No.”

“Lifeguard shorts, blonde hair, twelve o’clock.” He’s still turned around watching her and I do see her over his shoulder. She’s pretty.

“What about her?” I snip.

Ben lapses into silence for a minute or two and just watches her. I keep eating and consider helping myself to his food, too.

He turns around as she circles toward the street, and I catch them exchange a glance. He smiles, winks, and she smiles back, then her friend leans in and they giggle. I’m wildly uncomfortable and pick at the scraps of taco on my plate. Could he _not_?

“Thanks for dinner,” I mutter. “You can go have _dessert_ if you want.”

Ben keeps studying her with weird intensity that makes my spine prickle. He smiling as he takes a bite of his burrito, but something is off. Maybe I’m just paranoid. I do have paranoid schizophrenia.

His dark eyes flicker to me. I try not to avert mine, intent on glowering, but he casually curls my hair behind my ear and I can’t help but look away. Oof. Okay. That’s—

His fingertips trace my jaw as he draws his hand back, and my skin tingles. It’s light and foreign and weird and makes my stomach flip flop. Butterflies. All that jazz. Can’t look him in the eyes.

“You have such nice bone structure,” he murmurs. Fingertips brush the arch of my eyebrow along the outer edge of my eye socket. “Mine is all crooked, but yours is so symmetrical. Pretty.”

“Thanks.”

Ben cocks his head to make me meet his eyes, beguiling and deep and dark, and I stare and freeze up. What? Don’t look at me. _What_?

“You still look hungry.” He leans back and takes out his wallet, offering me a ten. “Go get something else.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, but it doesn’t take much cajoling for me to go get two more tacos.

And Ben is quiet, alternating between watching me and watching the people hanging out in the park. He keeps his hands clasped in front of his mouth and sometimes his eyes narrow like he’s focusing, then he’ll suddenly smile. I figure it’s when they catch him staring.

I have food and it’s nice to be able to trust someone. I chew and politely ignore him scanning the crowd, because I think if I look too deep, I’m going to ruin this fragile, strange thing I’ve found—and I don’t want to be alone again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ben is 100% pure unadulterated chaos

Ben and I agree to go shopping Friday after school. He’s going to pick me up from my house because I’m a little uneasy with my friends seeing my new ‘boyfriend’ with ’68 Corvette. That may raise some red flags with students and staff alike.

Rose asks me all week what his name is and what school he goes to and the more I avoid answering, the more I realize it looks like I’m making him up. People thinking I’m some lunatic inventing a boyfriend is worse than them knowing he’s older than me. I don’t want to look _crazy_.

I text Ben Friday to see if maybe he can pick me up at school instead so everyone can see he exists. He doesn’t answer all day and by the time I’m walking out of the building with Rose, I’m convinced he’s just been fucking with me and won’t show up at all.

It’s bright outside and I squint and shield my eyes when Rose gives a gentle, startled gasp.

Ben’s Corvette is parked between two buses in the drop-off turnaround and he’s leaning on the hood, laughing and talking to one of the drivers; an older bald guy. Ben’s arms are folded and his hair is drawn back at the top and I can’t lie, butterflies blow up in my stomach. Another bus driver is circling the car, brows raised. That’s Jenna. Curly hair, tattoos. I used to take her bus home.

I stop at the bottom of the stairs and Rose stops with me, staring at him the way I am. I wanted him to _walk_ here, not bring his fucking Corvette.

“Is that…?” she asks.

Ben glances up from his conversation with the bus driver and waves tauntingly with his fingertips. I ball my fists as he pulls down his sunglasses and shrugs off his car. Idiot. Idiot. _Idiot_. Why would you bring the fucking car? It’s going to attract way too much attention—

“Hey baby,” he calls. He’s chewing gum, and breaks into a grin. “How was school?”

Rose laughs nervously as we walk up to his car, grabbing my arm and squeezing hard. Ben shakes the bus drivers’ hands as they head back and snaps his gum. He’s wearing a Third Eye Blind T-shirt and shorts and _sandals_ and I’ve never hated anyone more.

“Hi… Kylo,” I say, crossing my arms. “Such a surprise to see you here.”

“You asked me to pick you up.” He chews and smiles. “So here I am.”

Rose sticks out a hand, gawking. “Hello, sir. I’m Rose. Rey’s friend.”

Ben shakes her hand and they’re chatting before I can stop it. He’s ridiculously charming; I knew that when I met him, and even though Rose isn’t easy to dazzle, she’s clearly dazzled. She laughs and curls her hair behind her ear and I aggressively throw my backpack in the rear of his Corvette. This isn’t the type of car a teenager or young adult owns and he can’t come to prom if he’s a certain age.

More people are pausing to look at the car before going to the parking lot or boarding the bus. Ben is still busy asking Rose questions about school and college but I start pushing him around the front of the Corvette, desperate to leave.

“Gotta go!” I say as I urge him along. “Lots to do—got lots to do for prom!”

Ben stops me when we get to the front of the hood. I’m glaring daggers at him but falter when he takes my face in his big hands and looks at my lips. Oh no. No, no, no. I’ve never been kissed and I definitely don’t want the first time to be _now_.

I frantically push my hands on his mouth before he can kiss me. Ben huffs into my palms and Rose is watching us with a confused expression, brows drawn and slowly raising. She’s smiling a little.

“Hate PDA,” I blurt. I smile at Rose but it fades as I look up into Ben’s dark eyes. “Don’t I, _Kylo_?”

Was going for Kyle and had a slip of the tongue but whatever; as long as it’s not his real name. His skin moves under my hands as he smiles and he shrugs.

I shove him away and hurry to the passenger side, promising to call Rose before climbing in. Ben gets in the driver’s seat and waves to her through the window. He’s still smirking and folds his sunglasses over the collar of his shirt.

“Are you _high_?” I hiss when we pull away from the curb.

“Thought you wanted me to pick you up, Marge.” He shifts gears, tongue rolling in his cheek. “Show all your little friends.”

“They’re going to wonder how I’m dating a guy with a fucking Corvette! _And_ you can’t come to prom with me if they know you’re over twenty one!”

Ben waves me off, laughing. I pout for the entire drive and glare out the window at the palm trees racing by. Asshole.

We stop by my house so I can drop off my backpack and a bad day gets worse: Unkar is home and sitting out on the porch. He exhales smoke, watching Ben’s car roll to a stop next to his rusty old pickup truck. Well. This won’t be fun.

“Just stay here,” I insist, waving to Unkar nervously. “He’s going to be a huge prick.”

“And miss the full tour of your bedroom?” Ben snorts, shaking his head. He’s already opening his door. “No chance.”

It’s too late to stop him and I have to field a bunch of texts from Rose and Poe and Hux asking who Kylo is and what school he goes to. I try to think of an excuse: he’s from out of town, he just moved here, he’s a freshman in college. Fuck. Maybe this is a bigger pain in the ass than it’s worse.

Ben is already at the porch. Unkar is blocking the entire thing with his gelatinous body and narrows his eyes at him, unimpressed. He’s greasy and sweaty from working.

“What’s this?” he grunts.

“My friend,” I say, shoving my phone in my back pocket. “I’m just dropping off my stuff and we’re going out.”

“Looks a little old to be hangin’ around a teenage girl.”

Ben bursts out laughing and turns a bit to look at me. His hands are in his pockets and he’s really never looked less like a guy in his early twenties.

I redden. “Unkar—”

“You ain’t goin’ in that bedroom alone,” he interrupts. He studies Ben as he takes another drag of his cigarette. “Rules is rules.”

Since when does he give a shit about what I do? I roll my eyes and try to reason with him but Ben puts a foot on the bottom step, and that makes Unkar drop into a scowl.

Ben sucks in a deep breath and heaves it out, clicking his tongue rapidly like he’s thinking. He leans on his knee so he’s a little closer to Unkar’s meaty head.

“How about this.” Ben plucks the cigarette from his fingers and Unkar looks murderous. “You’re gonna let me come and go as I please, or I’m gonna call CPS.” He leans closer, lowering his voice. “And I’ll put this cigarette out on the ground instead of using your neck. How’s that sound, chief? Fair?”

My heart skips a beat. Holy shit.

“You threatenin’ me?” Unkar hisses.

“Oh, yeah.” Ben laughs and looks up at me and I barely manage a smile. “Yeah, definitely.” He rolls the cigarette through the tips of his fingers, back and forth, and laughs more. “Sharp as a fucking knife, aren’t you?”

He straightens and taps the back of Unkar’s head, brows raised expectantly. My foster father doesn’t say a word, glowering silently, so Ben puts the cigarette out on the step and snaps his fingers.

“Rey.” He’s already up the steps opening the door and I stare at his broad back. “Backpack.”

I would _never_ talk to Unkar that way. I hurry past him and hand Ben my book bag, averting my eyes as we walk into the house. Jesus. Would he really put the cigarette out on Unkar? I’ve heard that’s excruciating.

It’s a little humid inside but not horrible. Ben wanders around without guidance for a minute, making a face like it’s the most disgusting thing he’s ever seen, and motions for me to go down the hall first. I do, still reeling from the encounter with Unkar.

Ben always seemed like a weird beach bum but weird beach bums don’t put cigarettes out on people. My heart races as I open my bedroom door and lead him inside. Maybe Ben is more dangerous than I thought.

He sets my backpack next to the door. “Wow. Not the Ritz Carlton, huh?”

“I didn’t buy it,” I grumble.

Ben closes my bedroom door and shrugs, ambling to the window to look outside. It’s weird having a guy in my room. I should’ve made my bed.

“Tell me if your foster dad gives you any problems,” Ben says. “I’ll set him straight.”

The paranoid voice in the back of my head is already screaming at me to run away but I’m not sure if I can trust it. I usually can’t and now I really don’t want to. He scared _Unkar_. He’s big and has a nice car—he bought me dinner. I’m just being paranoid. I’m always paranoid. That’s why I don’t have any friends.

Rose and Poe and Hux just tolerate me. I think Ben likes me. He doesn’t have to hang around; doesn’t have to help me. He just wants to.

It’s nice not feeling like a burden.

He peers at me over his shoulder and I nod, forgetting to respond to his offer to keep threatening Unkar. Ben breaks into a slim smile and his dark eyes wander down my front.

“Cute dress,” he says.

I look down. It’s yellow and pink and sort of hideous but I got it for five bucks. Can’t go wrong.

“Nice _sandals_ ,” I reply snidely.

“Aw. Don’t hate on my mandals, Rey.”

“Men shouldn’t wear them. It’s heinous.”

Ben laughs and I see his lopsided wide smile and crooked teeth. He really is charming but I’m determined not to be charmed.

He keeps his hands in his pockets and scans my room, meandering up to me. I fumble to fold my arms and look uncharmed and unimpressed. His cologne smells nice and he’s not wearing a ton of it.

“This is where Marge writes her best sellers,” he sighs.

“Judy Blume wrote the books and Margaret never wrote in a journal.”

I realize he’s coming _really_ close and passively back up a step. Ben takes another step closer, and I awkwardly move back again. He comes closer.

“It’s just a joke,” he groans. “Can’t I just make a joke without you dissecting it?”

“W-Well—”

I tumble over the edge of my bed in the next second. While I’m blushing and struggling to get up Ben follows me in a fluid, casual motion, like he planned it or he’s done this before. My bed creaks and I stammer and struggle with the word I want— _no_ feels too dramatic but _what the fuck_ isn’t quite cutting it.

My sheets smell like warm afternoon sun and my body wash (cucumber—it’s a dollar) and as Ben wraps his enormous arms around me, I realize they’ll smell like him, too. I clutch the front of his T-shirt and stare with wide eyes over his shoulder. We’re lying on our sides and I’m trying to keep my pelvis away from his but my boobs are smushed against his chest.

I’m frozen. His arms lock around me and he wedges a thigh between my legs so there’s no escape. I’m not sure what he’s doing or what I’m supposed to do. His breath is on my neck.

“Kylo isn’t a real name.” His lips brush my skin. I’m going to have a stroke. “Since we’re correcting each other.”

Ben stops moving. It takes a couple agonizing, terrifying minutes before I realize he’s sleeping. Why? I don’t know, but he’s hot and squeezing me and I can smell his laundry detergent in his shirt. My vagina is pressed against his thigh and I’m afraid he can _feel it_ but more concerned about how concerned _I_ am about it. I’ll just stay perfectly still.

My fingers twitch but I don’t move otherwise. I barely blink. I stare at my window and listen to the front door open and slam shut, and Ben sleeps.


	5. Chapter 5

We get to the mall by five or so, after Ben is done with his fucking nap. I’m too embarrassed and weirded out to say anything so I pretend it didn’t happen, examining my nails during the short drive instead. He just woke up and stood and acted like it was fine. I guess I’ll just ignore it.

It’s not really busy in JCPenney; mostly older women shuffling around the makeup section. Ben leads me toward the back corner where the dresses are and sits in a chair while I browse. There are a lot in all kinds of colors. I’m not sure what I should get—maybe I should ask Rose what’s cool.

I run my fingers over the sparkly sequined gowns. How much can I spend? How much _should_ I spend?

I clear my throat. “Um… so what’s the limit here?”

“Get whatever you want,” he calls.

“Well some of these are like, three hundred dollars.”

“Okay, whatever.”

Not really the answer I wanted. I huff and go back to browsing until I find a pretty green one that poofs out at the bottom like a Cinderella dress. I don’t know what that’s called—hoop? Something?

Ben appears out of fucking nowhere and makes me jump. He laughs, chewing his gum and leaning on the rack, eyeing the dress I’m touching.

“Want this one?” he asks. He reaches out and turns over the tag. He whistles. “You’ll have to suck my dick for this one.”

“Not in a million years,” I hiss.

He laughs again, trailing me through the cramped racks of clothes. Isn’t there a law—don’t the racks have to be a certain distance apart? Has anyone washed the fucking carpets here? _Ever_?

“I’m just kidding,” he says. “Get it if you want it.”

“I don’t want it. Let’s just go.”

Ben grabs my upper arm to stop me and I spin around and shove against his chest. He pulls me in anyway. He’s fucking _strong_.

“I’m kidding,” he repeats, effortlessly suppressing another irritated jerk of my arms.

“Like you were kidding earlier?! When you—”

My face burns and I clench my jaw. I could feel his _dick_. He didn’t even say anything when he woke up. Why? What the fuck is his problem?

Ben wriggles his lips to hide his smirk. He’s looking down at me, smug as fuck like always.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was up late last night.”

“Doing what?”

He breaks into a wide smile. The poor lighting plays shadows across his long features.

“Remember that blonde girl from the taco truck?” Ben shrugs. “Her.”

This time he lets me shove him away, pretending I’m disgusted to hide my painful pang of jealousy. He rubs his nose and shrugs, giggling like an obnoxious teenage boy. Asshole. Of course he did. Why would I think he wouldn’t? Idiot. Of course he doesn’t _like_ me. I don’t want him to, anyway. He’s weird.

I stomp back to the green dress and grab my size off the rack to try it on. Fine. Expensive dress, here I come.

Ben trails me to the fitting room. “Are you mad?”

“No!” I snap.

“Am I not allowed to fuck other women while I’m pretending to date you?”

Ugh. I walk into a room and hang up the dress, quickly turning to slam the door in his face. No way.

Ben groans. “Aw—don’t be mad at me, baby.”

“I’m not _mad_ ,” I retort. I pull off my shirt and glare at the dress.

“I was thinking about you the entire time.”

Butterflies flutter right up my throat and wedge themselves in it. I stare at the door, more stunned than I want to admit. It’s a weird thing to imagine. I try to push it out of my head because I don’t _want_ to imagine him having sex but my brain works much faster than usual, and unfortunately…

I swallow, turning away to take off my dress. Gross. No thanks. I don’t care about who he sleeps with.

Ben is surprisingly quiet while I struggle to get into the dress without his help. I twist my arm to zip the dress up a bit and turn in a circle. Pretty. The lighting makes me look like a cave beast but it’s a nice dress. I’ll probably need it altered.

Against my better judgment, I open the door to show Ben. He’ll tell me if I look stupid.

He’s texting someone and glances up, then puts his phone in his back pocket. He nods and raises his eyebrows and I figure that’s a good response.

“Looks good,” he says. “Want to go somewhere else and try more on?”

“This is fine. It’s just prom.”

“Come on—there’s like six other stores here.” He shoos me back into the dressing room. “You can’t pick the first one you try on.”

I insist it’s fine but he waves me off until I give in. I change into my sundress again and follow him to the next store, more nervous than ever. He said he thought about me when he was having sex with someone else. That’s… weird.

—•—

By seven I find a prom dress at a specialty store: it’s red, because why not, and still the same ball gown style as the one from JCPenney. There are black flowers sewn across the chest and down the skirt, which I think is kind of unique and pretty. I make an appointment to have it hemmed when my size comes in and have to admit, it’s kind of exciting.

“Thanks,” I say for the third time on the drive home.

It’s dark. Ben keeps shrugging when I thank him so I keep trying to express my gratitude. I don’t know why he’s helping me, but I’m paranoid that he expects something in return.

We stop at a red light. He reaches down into the center console and takes out a cigarette.

“You in any rush to go home?” he asks.

“Oh yeah.” I nod, furrowing my eyebrows. “Can’t wait to sit and watch Unkar slowly get drunk and try to break into my bedroom.”

Ben laughs a little and lights his cigarette. The light flickers green and spills across the dashboard and his hand resting on the shifter. I glance at it and my hands wrapped up tight in my lap.

“He never… _did_ anything,” Ben states more than asks. Pauses. “Did he?”

“ _Unkar_?” I laugh for the first time in hours, shaking my head. Ew. No. “No. No. He just wants me to come out so he can scream at me.”

Ben nods a couple times but doesn’t look away from the road. He exhales out the window and roughly shifts gears as we merge onto the highway.

“Tell me if he gives you any problems, Rey.”

His voice makes me shudder. Sometimes it drops deeper than normal and loses the teasing tone and I get a weird vibe. But he could’ve killed me by now if he wanted to, I guess. And he didn’t read my diary. _And_ he’s still hanging out with me even though I take antipsychotics.

I study my hands as light from the street lamps rolls across them. He also just bought me a six hundred dollar prom dress. I owe him now.

We stick along the coast line instead of driving further in where most of the houses are. My anxiety builds—what if he’s bringing me to a secluded beach to kill me and dump my body in the Pacific? But Ben comes up on a curve in the road and turns in down a hidden driveway shrouded in trees and I realize he’s bringing me to his house.

My heart hammers. “What is this? Where are we going?”

It’s bumpy. Must be one of those brick driveways. I look out my window and just see trees and some soft lights lining the driveway. Oh god. He’s going to kill me for real now.

“Relax,” he groans. He rolls up his window, cigarette gone. “It’s just my house.”

“ _You_ own a house on the beach?”

“I own a vintage Corvette. Where did you think I live? Clearlake?”

He laughs. I’m about to open my door and dive into the trees but he pulls around a driveway to the dark front of a house that looms up into the redwoods. It’s hard to see even with the spotlights but has that modern look with big windows and sharp angles.

Ben stops the car and cuts the engine. It’s quiet. Blood pounds in my ears.

“I’m not…” I glance at his dark eyes, bravery fading. “I’m not… I’m not…”

“I don’t want to fuck you.” He opens his door, sighing. “Feel like I’ve already said that a dozen times.”

His door slams shut and I’m left sitting alone. I watch him walk around the front of the car to the door and scramble to get out. I’m even more afraid of being left alone in the dark than being forced to fuck Ben.

He unlocks the door, motioning for me to go in. It’s dark but there are a huge set of windows down a couple steps in the living room that lets in bright moonlight—and I can see the ocean, clear as day, enormous and dark and glittering. His house has to be up on rocks because we’re hanging right over it.

I lean on my tiptoes but don’t walk over to look. Ben shuts and locks the door.

“There’s a beach,” he says. Points down, tossing his keys to himself. “It’s a steep climb down but I had stairs put in.”

“Cool,” I mumble.

“Private, too.”

Ben walks by me and flicks on lights. His kitchen is fancy: stainless steel, one of those refrigerators that looks like a cabinet. The cabinets are white and shiny and now I can see the entire house is all wood with no paint; I’ve seen a house like this before on AirBnB. It’s like a modern cabin.

He drops his keys on the counter. It’s wooden, too. Rose’s parents have the same thing.

“Want something to eat?” he asks. “I could go for tacos, but they won’t be as good as the ones from that truck.”

“You cook?”

Ben opens the fridge and doesn’t look back at me when he speaks. Thunder rumbles in the distance. I didn’t know it was supposed to rain.

“Would I be a perfect fake boyfriend if I didn’t?” he asks.

He turns, smiling, but I’m not any more at ease. I should go home. He could kill me and no one would ever know.

The fear must show on my face. Ben frowns, cocking his head and closing the fridge.

“It’s okay, baby,” he says gently, like I’m a deer about to bolt. He gestures to the house. “I can show you around if you want.”

“I should go.”

“Aw, don’t do that.” Ben pouts. “Remember what I said? You need to _relax_ —stop letting that paranoia get to you.”

It’s not unreasonable to be anxious right now: I’m alone in his house with him, he’s a near-perfect stranger, and no one knows where I am. He could literally kill me and no one would ever know. Dump me in the Pacific. Cut me up into tiny pieces.

I’m sick with fear. I think he’s going to kill me. It’s all been a ruse to get me here. Maybe he’s a drifter. Maybe he doesn’t own this house or the car. Maybe he killed the person who _did_ own them.

Ben clicks his tongue and starts toward me. I’m terrified but manage to edge back a couple steps before he’s closed in, shushing me, cupping my face in both his huge hands. My heart is racing so fast I can barely feel it. I’m having a heart attack. He’s going to _kill me_.

“Shh, shh. Rey.” He tilts my head so I have to look up at him and his dark eyes are mesmerizing with the glow of moonlight. “It’s okay. Why don’t you come sit in the living room and try to relax?”

“I want to go home,” I mutter. My hands are shaking at my sides. “I want to—I should—”

“I know you’re nervous and that just makes the paranoia seem justified.” He lifts his eyebrows and I stare. “But you don’t want to let it _control_ you, right?”

I shake my head limply. No. I don’t.

“And you want to be able to trust people?” I nod and he nods back. “So why don’t you come sit and I’ll make you something? Take some deep breaths, watch the waves. Storm is coming in. That’s fun to watch, too.”

His voice is soft and deep and I really want to trust him. I’m defective and unfuckable if I can’t trust people.

So I nod again, even though I want to hightail it out of his huge house, and he leans forward and kisses my forehead. He lingers there, lips warm and soft, and cold fear of being _murdered_ gives way to butterflies and sweaty palms. Better, I guess. It’s been a while since a guy kissed me.

Ben slips his hand to the small of my back and pats. “Go sit, alright?”

My legs tremble as I walk to the couch and I risk a peek back at Ben in the kitchen. He’s smirking, not in a friendly way, but it doesn’t feel threatening, either. I watch him for a minute before I sit down with my back facing him, resisting the urge to keep tabs on what he’s doing.

The ocean rolls in rough whitecaps. Ben turns on the radio to some oldies station.

This is fine. It’s good practice.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> r e d f l a g

We sit in Ben’s living room and eat tacos while the storm rolls in. They’re pretty good, though not as good as the food truck’s, and despite my anxiety I inhale three of them before he’s done with one. What? I’m a growing girl.

Paranoia still prickles in the back of my head but it quiets down the longer I’m sitting with Ben. Thunder rumbles and waves lash the beach—it’s pretty cool to watch through the enormous glass windows. Wonder if the house ever floods. The ocean could sweep it right off the rocks and out to sea.

There’s a metaphor in there. I’m not going to go digging for it, though.

Ben rests an arm over the back of the couch when he’s done eating, then fingertips brush my shoulder. I glance up but he’s looking out the window.

“All kinds of shells wash up after storms,” he says. “We can look in the morning.”

…Okay? I mean, it’s a Friday so it doesn’t really matter, but I’m not keen on staying at his house. I’m still chewing on my theory that he killed the owners and moved in here like those nest-thieving birds in Australia. Cuckoo birds? Are they from Australia?

Ben takes my plate and his and sets them on the coffee table. He leans back and this time doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arm around my shoulders. It’s heavy. Warm. He tugs me against his ribs and I let myself be tugged, sagging, blinking hard. Okay. Guess this is happening, too.

Can’t say I hate it. It’s nice being touched and I’m pretty proud of myself for not having a total mental breakdown so far. I’m full, kind of sleepy, and the rain pounding on the roof and windows is rhythmic and relaxing. Not so bad.

He rests his cheek on top of my head. Wind howls and rattles the glass and raindrop shadows run in rivulets down the floors, making the dim light from the moon dance and flicker. It’s all muted and quiet and spectral. My eyes flutter as Ben rubs circles into my arm with his thumb.

Something thuds upstairs.

I blink, turning my head to look, shifting to sit up, but Ben tightens his grip. He’s watching the stairs, too, hugging me to his side.

He clicks his tongue. “Huh. Maybe a branch hit the roof.”

It’s a little nerve-wracking when he gets up to check it out and leaves me behind in the dark. I watch him disappear upstairs and scan the empty living room, slowly sinking down into a ball on the couch. I’m fine. He’ll be back in five minutes—something just fell on the roof probably.

Time ticks by. Waves splash up the rocks and lightning flashes like something out of an old horror movie. It’s eerily still inside. Quiet.

I stare up at the ceiling, straining to hear any weird sounds from up there. He wouldn’t go out on the _roof_ , right? He knows that’s a bad idea. He could get struck by lightning or blown into the ocean.

Two hard thuds vibrate the ceiling. I shrink back, heart pounding when a couple more join in, hard and loud and deliberate: _thud, thud, thud_ , like someone is stomping their feet. Please don’t tell me he’s on the roof. What if I’m listening to him struggling not to fall off it?

“Ben?” I call feebly. Pause. “Is everything okay?”

There’s no response. He wouldn’t be able to hear me, anyway.

I stand up, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants before making my way to the stairs. They curl up into the darkness; I can’t see to the second floor. Maybe I should wait for him to come back.

“Rey?”

Ben’s voice floats to me from the shadows, softer than usual. I frown and take a step up.

“Is everything okay?” I call.

“Yeah—some kind of rodent in the crawl space. Raccoon, maybe.” He sounds slightly out of breath and I take another step up. “I’m going to hop in the shower but I should only be a couple minutes.”

“Did it bite you? They can have rabies.”

“I’m fine. I threw it outside. Just stay down there, okay?”

I frown, now walking up the stairs quicker. “You should really go to the hospital.”

Ben says something else dismissive but I ascend to the second floor, hesitating at the landing. The hall is long and dark and lined with doors, lit by the moonlight pouring in through the windows. I don’t see him anywhere and he’s a hard person to miss, even in the darkness.

The floor creaks under my weight. A slight tremble runs through my arms and legs and keeps me from calling out to Ben again.

Then a door opens and I jump a foot in the air. Ben peers out, yellow light spilling into the hall.

He raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t I tell you to wait downstairs?”

“What _happened_?!” I exclaim.

It looks like he got attacked by an army of giant raccoons. He’s not wearing a shirt and he’s covered in long, bloody scratches: most are near his wrists and up his forearms but I see a couple raking down his broad chest. They look really painful and deep, like the thing was desperate to get away from him. His face and neck look clear but it’s hard to tell at a distance.

He shrugs. “Nothing. I’ll be out of the shower in fifteen minutes.”

The door closes and he doesn’t give me any other explanation. I hesitate there, completely confused and horrified by his wounds, but the shadowy hallway freaks me out so I go back downstairs to sit on the couch.

I’m wringing my hands when Ben joins me ten or fifteen minutes later, black hair damp, wearing sweatpants and a red T-shirt. He sits and picks up the television remote and I stare at the lacerations on his forearms. They’re deep. Wide. Don’t raccoons have small paws?

“Want to watch a movie?” he asks mildly.

“…Sure?”

He puts his arm around my shoulders and scrolls through Netflix like nothing happened. I swallow, throat dry. It’s just the atmosphere from the storm—I’m letting my brain weave weird awful daydreams.

I wait until he picks _Catch Me If You Can_ before I speak up. I’ll just check.

“So that girl came over last night?” I ask, attempting nonchalance and failing miserably.

“Yeah, but that’s not her upstairs.”

“Oh no, I wasn’t thinking—”

“Bet the fish already picked her clean by now, anyway.”

There’s no quick ‘just kidding’ or laugh. I wait but Ben stays quiet and watches the movie and I don’t know what to say. What does he mean? Is he admitting to…? No, he wouldn’t do that. That’s ridiculous. He wouldn’t casually tell me he murdered someone.

Cold creeps into my fingertips quivering in my lap. Unless he’s going to kill me, too. Then it wouldn’t matter. Not like I could tell anyone.

Then he bursts out laughing, squeezing my upper arm and patting it. I grit my teeth and try to squirm away. Fucking—asshole—

“It’s too fucking easy,” he laughs. “Come on—it’s just a joke, babe.”

I’m dragged into his lap, squealing and thrashing but entirely helpless. He brings his long legs up on the couch and wraps them around my calves to keep me pinned between his thighs, face smooshed in his chest. My face burns and I twist to take a lungful of air, digging my nails into his ribs.

“Let go of me!” I wheeze.

“I can’t believe you thought I _killed_ that girl.” Ben laughs again, twisting to his side when I struggle. “You have a wild imagination, Rey.”

I’m pinned against the back of the couch, hopelessly tangled up with him. He’s strong and heavy and his warm breath is on my scalp. I’m blushing. I’m glad he can’t see it because he’d never let me live it down.

“Ah, ah,” he chides, clicking his tongue. He gives another breathless laugh when I struggle. “All that squirming around is just making me hard.”

That makes me freeze but makes my face burn so hot I’m sure he can feel it through his shirt. Ugh—he’s such a fucking pig.

We’re still for a minute. Ben catches his breath and nuzzles my hair, then he shifts, rolling so my leg is trapped between his. My eyes widen, practically bugging out of my skull when I feel hot, hard pressure against my thigh. Nope—no. No, no.

He doesn’t say anything and neither do I. I ball his shirt in my fists and the rain and thunder seem a million miles away. That’s his dick. Yup. On my leg. He obviously wants me to notice it. Am I supposed to say something? I’d rather disappear into the cushions.

I wait and wait and hold my breath but Ben doesn’t do or say anything else. One arm is under me, curled around my back over my ribs, and the other is holding the back of the couch. His breathing is even and slow and he doesn’t move his hips or grind his dick against my leg. He just lies there quietly.

Embarrassed, I lie there quietly, too. He’s almost lying on top of me. What does he want? Is he trying to fuck me? I think he might be smelling my hair and then I realize he _is_ smelling my hair, nose tickling my scalp. He idly traces one of my ribs through my shirt.

I’m too nervous to say or do anything so I don’t. I lie there silently, anxious from his weight and his silence in return. I don’t get him. I don’t get this.

Then he draws away with no warning.

Ben stands and stretches and yawns. I scramble to sit up, avoiding his eyes when he looks down at me.

“I’ll show you the guest room,” he says.

I nod jerkily. He’s wearing sweatpants and it’s not doing anything to hide his boner. Does he know that? I feel like he does. But he said he doesn’t want to fuck me so why…?

I’m led up to the creepy second floor to a bedroom near the stairs. I’m too unsettled to get a good look at it and just sort of wave to Ben when he says goodnight. I’m confused. This has been a weird night—I should really go home.

My head is spinning as I sit on the edge of the bed. Super weird. This has been a great _super_ weird night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a gentle reminder that if u have a problem w me or blocked me on any social media, i would love if u refrained from reading my fics! thanks!

Morning is slightly less weird.

The storm has passed and the sun streams in through the windows so the house doesn’t feel like a creepy psych ward anymore. I take a shower as quickly as I can and go downstairs to meet Ben for breakfast, which is a very normal bowl of cereal. We sit on the couch and watch the waves while we eat.

He leads me down the rickety outside steps to the sandy beach. The stairs are bolted into the rocks but California is slowly sliding into the Pacific so I’m not sure I trust them. I hurry down to the sand and Ben laughs at me.

The beach is covered in all kinds of shells and sea treasures. A salty breeze helps dry my hair and Ben ambles along beside me, hands in his pockets, smiling when I show him a piece of sea glass. He’s wearing shorts and a sleeveless red shirt. His scratches look a little better this morning.

“Garbage,” he says.

“It’s not _garbage_ , it’s sea glass.”

“Yeah—garbage.”

I roll my eyes and pocket it anyway. Pink is a rare color, even if it’s technically garbage.

We walk back up the stairs to the house as the sun rises high in the sky around noon. It’s amazing how much time passes strolling down the beach. Not sure how but every time I go shell hunting it feels like the hours go by in five minutes.

We rinse off behind the house and I squint up at it, still suspicious. How does some drifter weirdo own a beach house? Did he kill the family that lived here and steal all their stuff? Was he really some corporate guy, or is this all a ruse? It’s a complicated ruse if it is. I’m not a worthy prize.

Taco truck girl is a worthy prize. Probably. She was pretty. Is he going to have a girlfriend while he’s pretending to date me?

“Do you want to go get your meds?”

I glance up from washing off my ankle, shrugging. “I mean, I probably should.”

Ben nods. He’s wearing a shark tooth necklace and one of those paracord bracelets and looks like a weird drifter surfer dude with his hair up in a messy bun. He rubs his bicep and squints out at the ocean.

“We’ll drop by around dinner. You don’t take it until three or so, right?”

“Yeah, after school—but won’t I be going home around that time anyway?”

“You got somewhere to be?”

I scowl. “… _No_ , but—”

“Didn’t think so.”

I’m miffed when Ben walks off after his snide response. Well— _excuse me_? What’s he getting an attitude for? Does he think I’m some dumb girl he can walk all over, because I won’t be a doormat. Not without complaining a lot about it, at least.

I finish washing the sand off and go back inside the cool house. Central AC is a blessing Unkar can’t afford.

Ben is out in the kitchen drinking a Corona and doesn’t acknowledge me. Guess it’s five o’clock somewhere but noon seems early for alcohol.

“Rose wants to see me,” I lie, dumping my beachcombing treasures on the end table.

He still doesn’t look at me. Something old and vaguely familiar plays over the radio as he shuffles to the fridge and opens it. I roll my eyes and pull my ponytail out to catch all the strays the wind yanked free. Okay? This not-weird day is becoming weird.

Ben has another beer. He hits it off the edge of the island and chucks the cap in the sink.

“Who’s Rose?” he asks.

“You… met her? Outside school?”

He shrugs and doesn’t respond. The beer is held out in his thick fingers like he wants me to take it but I’m not supposed to mix my medication with alcohol. It’s also way too early to be drinking.

“I’m okay,” I say. “I’ll just text Rose.”

“No. I don’t want any of your friends knowing where I live. Gives me the creeps.” Ben wiggles the beer and raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Haven’t you ever had a Corona on the beach? Take it.”

“I don’t know. I’m really not supposed to drink alcohol—”

“You’ll be fine. After prom everyone is gonna be shitfaced so you might want to get used to it.”

Well—he isn’t wrong. I don’t want to be the only sober person at the after party.

I shuffle over to take my beer and Ben goes back to drinking his. I take a small sip, wincing at the taste, and drum my nails on the glass. Tastes like shit.

Ben polishes off his beer in the next blink of an eye. He gets another.

“What other friends do you have?” He smacks the beer off the edge of the counter and the top pops off. “Just Rose?”

“I’m not some weirdo loser. I have friends.”

“Don’t need to get defensive, babe.” Ben laughs, weird dour mood suddenly brightening. He sips his beer, dark eyes roaming down my body. “Why don’t we sit and you can tell me? I’m curious.”

I have _friends._ I’m so annoyed that I indulge him, sitting on the couch and listing off all the people I know: Poe, Finn, Hux, Bazine, Mitaka, Phasma, Snap, Jannah, Kaydel. I know them. That counts as friendship. Probably.

I mean—a lot of people stopped hanging out with me after my mental breakdown, but they’re still nice. I don’t consider them enemies or anything.

Ben sits slouched, nursing his beer with his knees spread and slowly moving. He stares out the window, eyes narrowing. I glare at him with my arms folded over my chest. Why is he being so weird? From what I can tell, _he’s_ the one that doesn’t have any friends. Except taco truck girl.

“Is anyone at that school mean to you?”

He’s scanning the horizon now, still not looking at me. I get a cool tingle down my spine.

“No,” I reply. “Not really.”

“Huh. Surprising.” Ben raises his brows as he takes another long drink, finishing off his beer. “Guess I just went to a high school with mean kids.”

He gets up. I watch him walk out to the kitchen for another beer and look down at the one in my hands. My fingers are a little numb. Should I be drinking faster?

“Usually the girls were the worst,” Ben calls. The fridge closes. “Girls are mean.”

I shrug, studying my beer. “I usually get along fine with everyone. I only had a problem in middle school with a girl who moved to New York.”

“Good. Saves me the trouble of dealing with it.”

Ben comes back to sit with me and turns on the TV. I drink my drink and he drinks his, gently touching the bottom of my bottle to tip more into my mouth. He smiles around the mouth of his so I drink as much of it as I can. God it’s gross.

“Thanks!” I snap when he finally relents.

“You’re drinking it like a weirdo. Just drink it.”

“Oh sorry, I didn’t realize binge drinking was the new normal.”

He laughs. His eyes are glassy and linger on my legs before wandering to the TV.

It’s odd to imagine anyone bullying Ben—much less girls. I figured he would’ve been popular in high school, especially with girls. Maybe he hasn’t always been so charming. Maybe he used to just be fucking weird and creepy.

We’re quiet for a long time. _Rick and Morty_ is on. I’ve never really liked it and Ben is barely watching. I’ve got a buzz going now.

“That girl at the taco truck wouldn’t have even _looked_ at me in high school.” Ben watches the television and doesn’t look at me. His expression is blank. “No women really did until I was making a shit ton of money.”

I drum my nails on my empty bottle. Sun spills in through the windows and sliding glass door but it’s shifted in the sky from earlier, casting deep, bizarre shadows across the floor.

“I don’t have to get the prom dress,” I say. “I mean, you don’t have to buy me anything—I just need someone to go with.”

“Five years ago I probably would’ve bought her a car,” he continues, ignoring me. His eyes narrow again and he heaves a sigh. “Do you want a car, Rey?”

I’m kind of shocked and confused by the question and don’t respond for a minute. Ben slowly turns his head to fixate me with his blank stare. He sips his beer.

I defrost enough to shake my head and manage a laugh. “No…? I can’t drive.”

“Would you want me to buy you one if you could?”

“…No? I don’t even want you buying my prom dress.”

He just stares at me for a couple more seconds, then quietly takes my empty beer and goes to get me another. I watch over the back of the couch, frowning. What a weird question. I wouldn’t want _anyone_ to buy me a car. Way too extravagant.

Ben hands me my new beer and sits with his fourth. He puts his feet up on the edge of the coffee table.

“Want me to drive you home?” he asks.

“After you’ve had three beers? Not really.”

It’s nerve-wracking to skip a dose of Zyprexa but if it’s only one it should be okay. I’ll just take it Sunday.

He laughs. “I can do it. Driving drunk takes practice, that’s all.”

“Classy.”

Ben smiles at me, and I avoid his eyes. His mood swings are extra confusing today. Cryptic. Maybe he’s the one who needs the Zyprexa.

We’re quiet for a long time. _That 70s Show_ comes on next and I settle into my corner of the couch, nursing my beer. I’m not drunk yet but I’m definitely feeling it now—and I really need to pee. Kind of scared to wander around his house, though.

But I get up anyway and go upstairs to use the bathroom before my bladder explodes. I sway at the stairs, blinking hard, and take them as slowly as I can. Don’t want to fall and smash my head open.

Ben is in the kitchen cooking when I return. The clock on the oven says it’s just after four and that gives me an anxious twinge in my stomach. I’ve skipped my pill by about an hour.

He nudges a new beer towards me. Huh. Didn’t realize I finished the second one.

“Grilled cheese?” he asks. “Bacon, tomato? Got like… fifty kinds of cheese.”

“Um… sure. Whatever is fine.” I sit at the island in one of the high chairs. It’s nice having someone cook for me. “Want me to slice the tomato or something? Your hands are shaking.”

They are—pretty bad. Ben pauses in the middle of opening the box of bacon, lifting his trembling left hand and then the right. Actually, I can just make the food. Grilled cheese isn’t like a _MasterChef_ challenge.

I hop down. “I’ll make it. You made dinner last night.”

The huge knife in his hand is giving me unspeakable anxiety and it’s not the right size for cutting a tomato. Ben sets it down, flexing his fingers, and nods. Phew.

He moves but doesn’t go sit, just leans over the island to watch me. I wash my hands and the tomato and get to work.

“You should probably have some water,” I suggest. I put the bacon in the oven. It tastes better that way. “Go lay down. Take a nap.”

Ben doesn’t reply. I glance up from slicing the tomato and find him gazing blankly at the island, unblinking, super zoned-out. He’s been a strange guy since the day I met him on the beach but these past two days have been extra strange, even by his standards. He should go see a doctor.

I drink some water just to be safe. I think I’ve been spacing out the beers far enough, since I don’t feel super drunk. Ben doesn’t seem drunk, either—at least, not in the traditional way.

My grilled cheeses come out perfect because I’m a pro. I sear the tomatoes to make it extra fancy and push Ben’s plate towards him with a glass of water. He sits in one of the stools and mumbles a thank you, the first thing he’s said in half an hour or so. His hands aren’t shaking anymore, so that’s good.

We eat. If I may say so myself, my grilled cheese is delicious. I used provolone, Swiss, and American to make it extra fancy. Yum.

After we’re done I clean up, too—I’m used to it from living with Unkar and I really don’t mind. I rinse a couple things off to put in the dishwasher and I’m almost done when I feel Ben right behind me.

“Don’t be creepy,” I say, setting aside a plate. My heart pounds. “Even though I know that’s hard for you.”

He doesn’t respond. I turn off the water, spine tingling. Okay. Just trying to lighten the mood.

Before I can turn I feel him approaching; hear his steps on the tile. I stiffen as his arms wind around my waist in a surprisingly gentle embrace, and he rests his chin in the crook of my neck. My heart really starts pounding when he sighs, nuzzling in. His arms tighten around my waist.

I keep my hands on the edge of the sink and don’t move a muscle. I have a feeling I shouldn’t.

“I’m gonna take a nap,” Ben murmurs. He kisses my jaw, then his lips brush along my cheek. “Want to come with me?”

I shrug helplessly. No.

His mouth roams further, languidly trailing kisses down my neck. It gives me goosebumps. Makes my skin prickle. I don’t say anything but tilt my head when he nudges me, not even pretending to resist.

“I could show you a couple things.” His voice is low and rough and makes me shiver. “Give you something to help you relax.”

I’m not sure how to say no. It should be easy, I think—it’s not a complicated word and I’m not afraid to tell him off most of the time. But the way Ben is kissing me and the quiet tension is intimidating and I’m afraid to break it with a refusal. I don’t know how he’ll react. What if he gets mad?

He lightly bites the crook of my neck, inhaling and rolling my skin through his teeth. He nuzzles my temple roughly, whispering.

“Let me go see what I have, baby.” Ben’s hands settle on my hips and squeeze. “I bet I have something nice for you.”

I nod, and he kisses my cheek once more before slipping away. I don’t turn to watch him walk upstairs, but once I hear the bathroom door close I hurry for the sliding glass door.

I can’t call Rose and I can’t walk home or pay for an Uber, but I can make myself scarce until Ben sobers up. I close the glass door behind me and rush down the stairs to the beach, checking over my shoulder to see if he’s following. He’s just drunk. In a weird mood. He’ll be fine once he sleeps it off.


	8. Chapter 8

Nighttime drives me back to Ben’s. I’m more afraid of the dark than his weird drunken state but I’m still careful when I enter the house, hesitating as I open the door, wincing when it squeaks on the rail. Seems like he’s sleeping off all the beer. Good.

I tiptoe upstairs to take a shower and brush my teeth, ears pricked for any sign of him moving in the hallway. So far no big signs of withdrawal from the Zyprexa. Which is good. Hope it keeps up until tomorrow. Hope Ben brings me home early.

After I’m clean I make my way to the guest bedroom and close the door behind me. I’m not sure where my phone is and I’m not sure Ben can drive.

I’ll just have to sleep here again.

—•—

I’m feeling weird by the next morning.

I’ve never skipped my medication for this long so I had no idea what to expect. But I’m off, definitely—the sheets hurt when I sit up in bed, and I’m struck by a wave of dizziness that buzzes right behind my eyeballs. I blink and shiver and consider lying down again. Maybe I’m coming down with the flu.

But I need to find Ben. I’ll feel better when I go home and take my pill.

The floor rolls under my feet like I’m standing on sand being drawn out by the tide—I stumble a step, pulse quickening, then stumble another. I’m okay after a couple steps and make it out to the hallway, then very carefully make my way downstairs. One step at a time. It’s not a race. One at a time.

It’s empty and quiet. I look around for Ben and call out but he doesn’t answer, so I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and clean up a little. My skin still feels hypersensitive and strange but I’m not about to topple over anymore.

When I come back Ben is walking through the sliding door, black hair damp and brushed back. He’s not wearing a shirt, just black swim trunks and his awful sandals. He smiles at me and I quickly avert my eyes before they can linger on his chest. Okay—could he put a fucking shirt on—

“Where’d you go last night?” he asks, closing the door behind him.

I shield my eyes, turned toward the kitchen. He’s dripping. He’s going to track ocean all over his expensive house.

“Just… needed some air,” I reply, shrugging. “I should really go home and get my medication. I feel weird.”

“You just walked down the beach alone?”

“Yeah? I do it all the time back home.”

He walks past me and I glance at his bare back. There are some faded scratches and when he opens the fridge his shoulder blades do that thing men’s shoulder blades do that I’ve seen in movies. I stare right up until he turns around, then quickly avert my eyes to the ceiling. Nice save.

“Want a beer?” Ben asks.

“It’s noon.”

“So?” He laughs and I hear him twist the top off and throw it in the sink.

“I really need to go home—”

I get an annoyed groan in response, and I make the mistake of glaring at him. He’s smirking at me while he drinks his beer, which just irritates me even more. Doesn’t he care that I’m sick? What’s his problem?

Ben raises his eyebrows, pointing at me with the tip of his beer bottle. “That shit is poison, y’know.”

“What? My medication?”

“Yeah. Melts your brain.” He takes another drink and polishes off his beer. “Shrinks it. Brain shrinkage.”

“Fuck off. That’s not true.”

“Google it.”

I scowl. Brain shrinkage? That can’t be true. It’s medicine; it doesn’t _hurt_ me.

Ben grabs his phone and motions for me to come closer. I’m not sure where mine is, so I grudgingly amble to his side, arms crossed, avoiding touching his bare bicep. He could put a shirt on. He’s so weird.

He Googles ‘antipsychotic grey matter’ and scrolls slowly down a list of articles. I step a little closer to read the one he clicks on.

“See?” He points. “Linked to long term reduction in grey and white matter. Shrinks your brain.”

I’m not convinced until he shows me a few more, and my anxiety grows. No one told me that could happen. That seems… bad. Brain shrinkage has to be bad.

I touch an article as Ben scrolls past. “This one says schizophrenia makes your brain shrink.”

“So you want to make it worse by taking those pills?”

…No. I lean back, chewing my lower lip, and don’t look up at him. I’ll do more research when I go home. The doctor told me after my episode that it’s mostly safe and I need to take it at the same time every day—and I do feel better. I’m more stable. I don’t hear… stuff. _Think_ stuff.

I definitely don’t want to go back to the hospital. It was embarrassing and awful.

Ben drops his phone on the island. “Just saying. Food for thought.”

“…I don’t know.” I tighten my arms. “The doctor said I really need to take it.”

“Yeah, told me the same thing.”

I frown up at him. He nods, opening the fridge and squinting into it before he reaches in. Oh right—he mentioned that a while ago.

“What did you take?” I ask.

“Took all kinds of shit for _years_. Couldn’t think straight—gained a bunch of weight.” Ben opens his next beer and takes a drink before continuing. “Way better off without that poison in my veins.”

The irony isn’t lost on him, at least. He glances at his beer and laughs and takes another drink.

It’s interesting, though. Ben seems okay without them. I _have_ been fuzzy ever since starting Zyprexa, and I’d save money not picking up the pills every month. Which would be nice.

I shrug, curling a strand of hair behind my ear. “I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

“You could try for a week. Text me if you’re feeling sick and I’ll bring your stuff to you.”

“I could ask my doctor—”

“Nah, they’re in on it.” Ben shakes his head and leans over the island, winking at me. “I got you. Text me if you’re feeling weird. I’ll be there.”

“Well I’m feeling weird _now_.”

He gasps, covering his mouth with his beer-less hand, and I nod. Yeah. I haven’t been kidding the three times I told him I don’t feel well.

Ben clicks his tongue behind his palm. He doesn’t say anything for a minute and I wait awkwardly while he finishes his second beer. Really puts those things away. Even Unkar can’t drink that fast.

He slaps the island and I jump.

“I know what’ll help,” he says.

The glass bottle is thrown in the sink and I jump again, as easily spooked as ever—then he turns and gives me a very unsettling grin.

I scowl. “What are you plan—”

Ben comes around the side of the island surprisingly fast for a guy who just pounded two Coronas. I’m hauled over his shoulder, shrieking and kicking and demanding to be put down as he sweeps me through the sliding door into the warm afternoon.

I’m carried down the rickety steps still struggling and caterwauling. Ben just laughs.

“I’m gonna drop you if you don’t stop,” he warns.

“ _Fuck you_ ; don’t you _dare_ throw me in the ocean—!”

He laughs again, ignoring my struggles as he struts across the sand straight down into the surf. I kick harder once we’re submerged, anxious like I always am when I’m in the ocean because—

“I can’t swim!” I blurt, admitting my biggest shame as a Californian. I wince. “I can’t swim—don’t—don’t drop me!”

Cold water laps at my ankles near Ben’s ribs. I’m dizzy like I was earlier, trembling from fear or maybe withdrawal, and I push on his broad back to keep my face above the dark water. It’s cold and murky. What if there’s a shark? Sea serpent? Giant squid?

Ben hums. He slides me down his front and I lock my thighs around his hips, clinging around his neck for dear life. The water is up to his chest and he’s moving deeper. It’s almost up to my neck but I’m too scared to move any higher up his body.

“Miss Private Beach Walks is scared of the ocean, huh?” He swirls in a circle and the water rises to my chin. I stop breathing. “Would’ve never guessed.”

He wraps an arm behind my back. My teeth chatter as he slowly moves through the water, drawing me into the shallows then submerging me up to my chin again. Every time I suck in a sharp breath and squeeze my eyes shut and hope he doesn’t sink me underneath the surface. I think I’ll drown.

A wave rolls past us and almost swells over my head. I scoot a little higher up Ben’s middle so we’re face-to-face, and I think I must look as terrified as I feel when our eyes meet.

He searches my face for a minute, then dips me backwards like he’s going to push me underwater. It fills my ears and I hear my heart pounding through the next wave that gently rolls under my head, and my lower lip quivers. I can’t hear anything. It’s alien and quiet with ocean in my ears.

Ben kisses me.

Startled, I tug back, eyes wide and thoughts spinning. He kisses me again more forcefully, shushing me against my lips with a soft whisper before his mouth starts moving. He’s _really_ kissing me and in a couple seconds his tongue traces and seam of my lips and he’s _really really_ kissing me.

I don’t know what to do. He tastes like Corona and saltwater and I’m too scared to do much to kiss him back—I don’t even know if I want to kiss him back—but thankfully he stops after a minute.

Ben kisses the slope of my jaw, winding up my cheek to kiss the corner of my mouth. His arm around my back slides under my butt.

“Water always helps me when I feel sick.” He nudges my temple with his nose and I shiver. “That help at all, Rey?”

I nod, frozen in shock and fear. Sure. Yeah. Just get me out of here.

But he kisses me again instead, gently dipping me back like he’s baptizing me. It feels like I’m drowning but I’m so petrified that I can’t bring myself to say anything.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS MAY BE TRIGGERING FOR VICTIMS OF ABUSE
> 
> please read with caution and take breaks if needed—this fic will involve more gaslighting and abuse as it proceeds

Ben brings me inside to change out of my wet clothes before he takes me home. I have to wear a flannel and sweatpants of his that are way too big.

I’m still damp, shivering in the front seat of his Corvette during the drive. He plays oldies and smokes a cigarette, humming along to the music like he doesn’t notice me trembling beside him. He _kissed_ me—a couple times. Then he didn’t say anything about it. I don’t get it. I don’t get this.

Ben parks next to Unkar’s truck once we reach the trailer. He sits there quietly for a couple minutes, smoking and squinting out the windshield at the front door. I wait, because I feel like I can’t leave until he tells me I can.

He flicks ashes out the window. “He’s home?”

I shrug, nodding. Should be. Usually doesn’t go anywhere if he isn’t driving.

Ben heaves a sigh as he takes off his seatbelt. He opens his door and I open mine too, hurrying to get out of the car. Maybe when he sees Unkar inside he’ll leave. He wouldn’t risk an altercation. Right?

He follows me up the porch steps, still smoking his cigarette when I jimmy the door open.

We walk in to a loud football game playing on the living room television. Unkar is in his usual spot facing away from the door, and there are a few beer cans littered on the floor, one more clutched in his meaty fist. Pretty typical afternoon for him.

Ben kicks a can. It makes Unkar turn to look at us and he curls his lip, scowling.

“ _You_ ,” he snarls.

Ben nods, shrugging and raising his eyebrows, taking another drag of his cigarette. He meanders over to Unkar’s side and drops his lit cigarette in his beer.

“Me,” Ben agrees. He gesticulates toward the game. “Gonna need you to fuck off for the rest of the day. Maybe longer.”

“Excuse me?!”

“Yeah—yeah.” Ben scratches his neck, grimacing. “We did have this talk, though. Remember? Not too long ago.” He snaps his fingers. “So get out.”

Unkar gets up. I take a step back when he starts shouting at Ben, afraid it’s going to get violent—then he _swings_ at Ben and misses, staggering forward a few steps. Ben ducks around him, laughing.

I feel kind of bad for Unkar. This is his house, even if he’s a rotten asshole, and I don’t want him to get hurt. I mean… I _do_ , a little. But I’m scared Ben will seriously hurt him and I definitely don’t want that.

“Let’s just go,” I suggest. My palms are sweating. “He’s drunk. Just leave him alone.”

Unkar sags against the island, wheezing. He’s flushed purple and I get an anxious clench in my chest. He’s all I have. If he goes, I’m all alone.

Ben laughs. He strolls into the kitchen and opens a couple drawers, rummaging around while Unkar struggles to catch his breath. I stay where I am. Something seems off, but I’m not sure if I’m just being paranoid. I think I need to lie down.

“He knows the rules,” Ben replies. He clicks his tongue and withdraws a chef’s knife from the drawer he’s searching through, and I take another step back. “Oh. This looks sharp.”

Unkar shakes his head and backs away while Ben casually tosses the knife from hand to hand. He follows, grinning, and I get the feeling that he enjoys scaring the shit out of people. I _know_ he does.

“I’ll go,” Unkar says, coughing. “I’ll go.”

“Good, good. That’s a good idea.” Ben playfully waggles the knife at Unkar, who turns white as a sheet. “Make sure you keep your mouth shut, alright? Or I’m gonna slit your gut open and see how much beer pours out.”

Unkar keeps nodding. Ben gives him a second to grab his keys and locks the door as soon as he’s out.

I’m maybe ten feet away. He does an about-face in his heel to face me, still brandishing the knife. We stare at each other and he slowly smiles. The knife waves back and forth in his fingers.

“You like role play at all, Rey?”

I shake my head. No—I don’t know. Why is he pointing a fucking knife at me?

Ben squints. His tongue rolls inside his cheek and he uses the back of the blade to scratch his forearm.

“I like role play,” he says. “I role play with all the women I fuck.” He shrugs. “Even if they don’t want to.”

I’m confused and nauseous. Goosebumps prickle up my arms and my fingertips tingle. I feel like I should run but he’s holding a _knife_.

Tears burn in my eyes. I swallow.

“I don’t… I don’t want to role play.”

“You _don’t_? Why not?”

I shake my head and almost break down into tears. Ben is just staring at me, half-smiling like it’s funny that he’s scaring the shit out of me.

He ambles closer. I take a couple trembling steps back, lower lip quivering.

“I’ve got a really good idea,” he coos. “Want to hear it?”

“P-Please—”

“A seventeen year old girl goes for a walk on the beach alone. She—” He raises his eyebrows, pointing the knife at me. “That’s you, babe. She gets picked up by a drifter—that’s me—and he just… _really_ fucks her up. Really rapes her.”

My heart pounds so hard I’m short of breath. I keep backing up past my bedroom, cowering in the back corner of the hallway. He waves the knife around loosely like it’s a baton. 

“Just spitballing here—but maybe he chains her in his attic.” Ben shrugs, both palms facing up, letting the knife dangle in his fingertips. “I know, I know; I’m really pushing the envelope, but it could be hot. And— _and_ —”

I flinch when he presses the tip of the knife against my belly—then he swipes up, hard and fast, slicing through my shirt. There’s a sharp sting and I know I’m bleeding but I’m too scared to scream or move. I shake violently, near delirious from terror.

Ben draws the knife lightly down my stomach to the hem of my pants. He leans in, nudging my temple, and I struggle to control my panicked fast breaths.

“When she makes too much noise and bothers the company downstairs…” His voice lowers. “He strangles her with his bare hands.”

Blood trickles down my stomach. I think he’s going to kill me now.

I’m not sure how long we stand there, but it feels like a lifetime. Ben is quiet and still, breathing evenly on my cheek while I tremble and try not to make a sound. Please don’t kill me.

“What do you think, Rey?”

His finger brushes the cut up my middle and I twitch, biting my tongue. He traces it slowly, torturously up between my breasts.

I swallow, trying not to cry, but my voice cracks. “Please don’t—please don’t hurt me.”

Ben smiles at me as he sticks his blood-coated finger in his mouth. He pushes it around like he’s savoring the taste, staring at me the entire time, and pops in out of his mouth. The knife dangles from his fingers.

“You know role play isn’t real, right? I’m not _really_ going to strangle you.”

“Please…” Tears blur my vision and spill down my cheeks. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Why would you think I would do that?”

I just sob. Ben clicks his tongue and sighs. He’s threatening me—I’m not crazy. Right?

“That hurts my feelings, Rey,” he says. “I’m trying to tell you something personal.”

He gives me this look that twists me up even more, like I _actually_ hurt his feelings. I shake my head and he mimics me, then sighs louder when I cry harder.

“I’m s-sorry!” I bleat. “Please don’t hurt me—I’m sorry—”

“You’re really hard to deal with sometimes; you know that? You’re really lucky to have me. Lots of other people wouldn’t put up with you being so rude and weepy. You’re lucky I understand why you act so crazy.”

I’m beside myself. My thoughts are fuzzy and too fast to follow so I just cry and cover my face and hope it stops. Ben heaves another irritated sigh but I can’t stop crying. My chest is so tight I can barely breathe and I slip into panicked hyperventilating as the room slowly begins to spin.

Ben rubs his mouth. He’s shaking his head at me and little trails of light follow him.

“Oh, Rey,” he says. His voice is mottled, deeper than usual. Feels like my ears need to pop. “Poor Rey.”

I think I’m going to faint. I grab his shirt, terrified I’m going to float straight out of my body. I haven’t felt like this in months. I think I’m really losing my mind right now. They’re going to drag me back to the hospital and never let me go.

Ben runs his fingers through my hair. “Look at you getting yourself all worked up.”

He picks me up, effortlessly. I wrap my arms around his neck, squeezing my eyes shut so I don’t have to watch the walls gently corkscrewing in toward me. I’m cold and hot and nauseous and confused.

Ben rubs my back as he kneels on my bed, easing me down. He lies on top of me and I squirm, panicked by his weight pinning me to the mattress.

“Shh, shh.” He laughs into my hair, and I hear a dull _thunk_. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Don’t you trust me?”

I shudder, lips quivering as he kisses my neck. He breathes a low groan, teeth rolling my skin hard enough to make me wince. His fingers grasp my jaw and gently turn my face to his so he can kiss me, shushing against my lips when I whimper.

His kiss is slow and unhurried even though I’m shaking miserably. Ben’s fingers roam from my jaw down to my throat, and I breathe a little faster as he curls his hand around my neck.

“See how crazy those pills make you?” He squeezes my throat and I whimper. “It’s okay, baby. I understand better than anyone else.”

He keeps squeezing. I gulp for air, fingers twitching and scrambling on his waist—and my ears ring before darkness swirls in.


End file.
